


Heaven Can Wait

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-16
Updated: 2006-09-09
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:51:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean dies, but convinces Heaven to send him back to Sam. It doesn't happen how he plans though.





	1. Prologue 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Heaven Can Wait  
Author: MF Luder  
Category: Dean/Sam, Wincest, AU  
Keywords: slash, incest, angst  
Time Frame: Fall 06 to many years later  
Rating: Will probably get up to NC-17  
Spoilers: Nothing beyond The Benders  
Disclaimer: They belong to the WB and whoever produces the show.  
Archive: Sam/Dean Archive, my LJ, anywhere else, please just let me know so I can visit and pet my baby on occasion.;-)  
Summary: Dean dies, but convinces Heaven to send him back to Sam. It doesn't happen how he plans though.  
Feedback: Mulder_Loves_Scully_Forever@hotmail.com   
Author's Notes: This idea came to me randomly one day after watching a Robert Downey Jr movie and I thought back on another one he stared in, Chances Are. While the general basis is from there, it's not a parody or SPN recap of it, I made it my own.  
Beta Thanks: Many thanks to my wonderful SPN betas, Xscribe and [ ](http://siberian-skys.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://siberian-skys.livejournal.com/)**siberian_skys**.  
Inspiration:...Gay men are every bit as emotionally closeted as their straight counterparts. Instead of just one partner being distant, uncommunicative and emotionally stunted, both are.--Minotaur   
  
  
**PROLOUGE 1**  
  
Sam had always assumed that his father would be the one to die in the last battle with the demon. He'd prepared himself for that a long time ago. He had even come to terms that it might be him who died since everything had revolved around him. His mom, his girlfriend, his powers.  
  
So when the demon had jumped on him, claws burning into his back, yelling dark words at his dad and brother in a raspy unholy voice and Sam felt himself being pulled under, being burned, he was ready. He gave one last look at Dean, mouthing “I'm sorry,” saying goodbye with his eyes. Dean's eyes were shining, tears unshed, and he cried out in anguish.  
  
What Sam hadn't ever imagined was Dean throwing caution to the wind and launching himself at the demon. He should have known though, Dean would protect him to the end. Surprised by the attack, it let go of Sam and turned a vicious hand on Dean, swiping at his face and leaving deep gouges.  
  
Sam growled, angry that it would leave him for Dean; its fight was with him. He tried to go to Dean, but his father was keeping him back, shouting “No Sam!” before he continued his chanting of older-than-legend Latin.  
  
He had to get to Dean. He could see his brother was rapidly losing, attempting to pour Holy water onto the demon as it clawed him, biting at its own shoulder to loosen Dean's grip. Their father spoke the final words of the incantation and threw a heavy silver cross straight at what would be the demon's heart, just as Dean plunged his own wooden cross into its back.  
  
The demon's roar blew Sam back towards his father once more. Light began to emanate from it, cracks appearing in its skin like a broken mirror. As it splintered, a great wind came up, something else conspiring against Sam as he tried to get to his fallen brother. Dean was on his back but resting up on his elbows as he stared at the destruction. Sam breathed again as Dean started getting up, backing away.  
  
Suddenly the demon stretched out one gnarled, glowing claw, managing to grasp Dean by the neck. The last thing Sam saw was Dean's face, twisted in agony as he was devoured by flames, along with the demon.  
  
“Dean!!!”  
 


	2. Prologue 2

**PROLOGUE 2**  
  
One endless moment he was burning, screaming, not for his own pain, but for Sam's. Then all consciousness faded.  
  
He had always assumed he would burn in Hell. He hadn't always been moral, he hadn't always done what was right.  
  
So Dean couldn't have been more surprised when he found himself standing in a seemingly endless line of people waiting in a white fog. What was this? Certainly not a Hell he'd ever heard about. But then, maybe Hell had upgraded to modern times. There wasn't anything he hated more than bureaucracy.  
  
But people seemed to be chatting, amiably, and not in any pain.  
  
He turned to ask the black woman in front of him. “Hi, excuse me, but where are we?”  
  
She turned around, smiling at him. “You new here, ain't you? Well son, you be in Heaven. Now you just gotta wait for St. Peter to process you. Get comfortable; it might be awhile.”  
  
“Heaven? Be awhile? That's not possible. I have to get back.”  
  
“Oh no, honey, you can't go back. You just gotta wait.”  
  
“No,” he was upset, he couldn't stay there. “I've got to go back. My brother...he needs me.”  
  
“Everybody needs somebody, baby. I'm sure he got somebody else. Once you processed though, you can apply to be a guardian angel. Then you can look out for him all you want.”  
  
“No, he doesn't,” he said shortly. He had to get out of here. Sam--he could feel his brother's anguish. Somehow, he knew Sam needed him right then.  
  
He began to run. He wanted to get to the front of the line--had to--tell them they'd made a mistake, but it seemed to go on forever. The people in line turned to stare at him as he flew by them.  
  
Finally, he stopped. He wasn't tired but he wasn't getting anywhere. So he yelled.  
  
“God!! St. Peter!! Whoever is out there, listen up!” He took a deep breath. “You've made a mistake!! I need to go back. My brother needs me, you hear? You can't do this to him, I shouldn't be here!”  
  
The people in line were now turning towards each other, whispering excitedly to one another. Clearly, they hadn't seen a lot of action in awhile.  
  
“Hey!! You out there! Listen to me, dammit!”  
  
That got a reaction. A collective gasp traveled through the line and the air itself seemed to ripple.  
  
“Yeah, that's right!” he continued yelling, voice getting gruffer. “I want to talk to someone in charge!”  
  
Suddenly the fog broke and two creatures descended. They had to be angels, judging by their twelve foot wingspan, but it wasn't how he'd expected them to look, ever. They were...indescribable. He couldn't have explained them if he'd wanted to. They were divine, horrifying, majestic, and scary. He was terrified but when one grabbed onto each arm and started to drag him back to his place in line he fought.  
  
“Oh no you don't, whatever you are! I am not wasting time, standing in line! I have to get back!”  
  
_*You can't go back, mortal. It's not done.*_  
  
Shivers went throughout Dean's whole body at the sound of its voice. It was scratchy, like fingernails on a chalkboard. It echoed way down in his soul. Though he supposed he was only soul here. Not that that mattered.  
  
“The hell it isn't! I wanna speak to whoever's in charge around here.”  
  
_*How do you know we're not, mortal?*_ The other angel whispered in his ear.  
  
“Because the person in charge wouldn't have to man-handle me.”  
  
_*Smart one aren't we, mortal?*_  
  
“You bet your white feathered asses, I am. Now let me speak to someone else before I start screaming again, maybe say a few more forbidden words, whatever it takes. Hell, I'll torch your asses.”  
  
He almost flinched. Almost backed down when he felt twin gazes turn on him in sync. But then he remembered his brother down there, without him, his brother whom he loved more than anything, more than life, and he knew he had to get back. So he stuck out his jaw and glared stared straight ahead, tensing his muscles.  
  
Just as he was about to scream again, he heard, _*He comes*_.  
  
Dean wasn't sure what to expect, but the tall, stately Arabic-looking man who suddenly appeared was not it.  
  
“You are making quite a stir here in Limbo, young Dean Winchester. My Seraphim are very agitated.”  
  
_*This one's a pain, Michael. He fights hard.*  
  
*And demanding. But perhaps, he is strong enough.*_  
  
“Yeah, well, you guys are pains too,” Dean muttered, unable to think of a better comeback at the moment. The whole angels-in-white-halo thing was making him nervous.  
  
“What reason do you have for disturbing the peace? Something is amiss?”  
  
“Yeah, it's amiss alright. I shouldn't be here.”  
  
“That cannot be. Yes, I understand no one likes waiting in Limbo, but you had to realize that despite all the good in your soul, there is a technical sin that cannot be looked over. It would take a very great exception for God to be forgiving of such sins. Not that He isn't forgiving. But sometimes you need to work for it. Or rather, wait for it.”  
  
“The fact that I didn't get right into Heaven isn't bothering me. In fact, I was sure I was destined for Hell.”  
  
“What is your issue then?” The man, Michael, seemed truly perplexed.  
  
“Hey, aren't you angel dudes, like supposed to know everything? Read minds or somethin'?”  
  
Michael smiled, a large toothy grin. “I think you are confusing us angels with God. Indeed, I know a great many things, but your mind is very clouded now from whatever it is concerning you.”  
  
“Alright then. Well, I shouldn't be here. I want to go back.”  
  
“Go back?” The angel started laughing. “Oh, that is a good one! What a kidder! You are always making me laugh, Dean.” He was hunched over clutching his sides, snorting now. Only the Seraphim on either side were still.  
  
Dean glared. “Dude, I'm serious. Send me back.”  
  
Michael straightened, face suddenly very serious. “For what reason? We do not send people _back_. People do not _want_ to go back.”  
  
“Yeah, well, this person does. My brother--”  
  
“Ah,” whispered Michael. “It would be him, wouldn't it?”  
  
“What?” Dean tried not to look confused, huffing his chest out a little more. Though it had to be pretty ineffective considering the creatures holding onto him. Sam would laugh. _Yeah well, Sammy, I'm doing this for you, so shut up_ , he thought.  
  
“Do you realize, he's one of the reasons you're here?”  
  
“'Course I know. I saved him. I couldn't let him die. Just that damn demon caught me off guard.”  
  
“No, that's not what I mean.”  
  
Dean instantly became suspicious. “What do you mean?”  
  
Michael leveled his eyes at Dean. “I believe you know _exactly_ what I mean.”  
  
Dean sighed inwardly, keeping memories at bay. “Yeah, ok, fine. But you know what? Make sure that all stays on my soul. I don't want to tarnish him with it. I...it was all me.”  
  
Michael's eyes flickered.  
  
Dean continued. “Can I just get back to my brother? See, not only do I love the kid, but he needs me, even if he's too stubborn to admit it.”  
  
“People don't just raise from the dead. Only Jesus, Lazarus, and the occasional zombie.”  
  
“You're God's like, right-hand man though, aren't you? Can't you put in a good word for me? Please,” he was ashamed by the pleading tone of voice, but hey, maybe it would convince the righteous angel. “I'm begging you, I have to get back to my brother.”  
  
Tears he'd been holding back finally came crashing down. He wouldn't let himself sob though.   
  
Michael glanced up into the fog and for a moment was surrounded by a soft golden glow before it vanished. He gazed at Dean again.  
  
“God has decided to grant your request. You shall again join the world of the living, be reunited with your brother. Seraphim,” he commanded, “release him. I shall guide him to the edge.”  
  
Without a word or blink, the Seraphim let go and vanished. Dean nearly sagged to the ground, but caught himself. Michael laid a calming hand on his shoulder and Dean felt power surge through him, tears stopping; he truly felt like a warrior.   
  
“Follow me.”  
  
He glanced over his shoulder once and noticed the crowd was losing interest in gawking; many of the onlookers had turned back to wait peacefully. He followed Michael a seemingly endless length from where he'd begun.  
  
Michael finally stopped and turned to look at him. “This is where I leave you. You will soon be returning to your world. Find your brother. Take care of him. I know of the deep love you have for him, and the love he has for you. It is because of this love you are allowed to go back.” He leaned forward, breathing upon Dean's forehead, then kissing it, hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean felt a renewed strength, and knew that indeed, God existed, that God was granting him something very few got. He guessed it was like Leyla had said many months back. God worked in mysterious ways, indeed.   
  
Michael continued. “I will be with you throughout, and if not me, another of my angels. God bless you, Dean Winchester.”  
  
And just like that, the archangel faded from Dean's sight. He turned and began to walk aimlessly through the fog, waiting.  
  
Somewhere, in California, a child was born.  
 


	3. Interlude 1

Rating: G  
(see rest of header in part 1)   
  
*I think You might have made a mistake.*  
  
**/I don't make mistakes, Michael./**  
  
*You made them brothers to start.*  
  
**/Yes. Your point?/**  
  
*You had to know that those souls were destined to be lovers.*  
  
**/Sometimes, Fate has a way of making herself know. Something even I can't always control. It was destined this way. Their skills and dedication stemmed from their love./**  
  
*I see. You know, he's going to be angry when he remembers who he is.*  
  
**/Yes. But it's better for the other brother./**  
  
*I won't always be able to watch him. I can be there for the important things. But he'll need someone else.*  
  
**/True. MARY./**  
  
~Yes?~  
  
**/Your son. He will need looking after. Guide him, be there to teach him even though he won't recognize it as you. Be there to help him remember. Love him./**  
  
~How could I not?~  
  
**/Good girl. I leave him in your hands then./**  
  
*Of course.*  
  
~Yes.~  
 


	4. Interlude 2

**INTERLUDE 2**  
  
She had known the moment Dean died. Would have known even if she hadn't been watching. She could instantly feel his presence in Heaven with her, though he was destined to be in Limbo for some time.  
  
The moment she had expelled her remaining earthly power saving them from that malevolent poltergeist, her soul appeared at the gates of Heaven, where St. Peter had ushered her in before returning to his laundry list of Limbo dead. She was sure, that had she not been ensnared as a ghost inside that house, she would have been just like her son—demanding to go back to John, back to Dean, back to her six-month-old Sam. But the time spent in the spirit realm cured her of that instant desire.  
  
Most newly dead souls faded, forgetting their past life, drifting aimlessly, singing praises to God, or waiting for reincarnation. She couldn't do that, her family was her everything. John...John was still the love of her life. She didn't want to remember any past lives, didn't want to become a new person. And so she became one of the few who maintained her identity.  
  
She immediately applied for guardian angel status and was officially granted the right to be the guardian angel to any and all Winchesters. Since then, she had done all she could in the short time since to protect her family. Watched her two sons become men and more than brothers. Watched her husband fight very hard, avenging her death and raising their children.  
  
She was just sad it hadn't been enough.  
  
She had almost been wishing it could have been John. Sam and Dean, they had each other, and would have been perfectly content to live life out, just the two of them, forever. But Evil had a way of interfering, and God didn't always step in.  
  
That was why, when Mary was called by God, she was surprised. But she hadn't heard more beautiful words spoken in Heaven than God sending her to help her new Dean. He wouldn't be the same, but he would always be her son. No new mother, new body, could change that.  
  
She knew Sam would be ok. He had John, his own ability to cope. For Sam, knowing the love had been there was enough. But Dean had never been happy without Sam. Dean needed his younger brother, body, heart, and soul. The connection between her two sons was something that was so bright, so true, anyone in the spirit world—Heaven or Hell—could see its pulse. She knew there was nothing stronger than love, and no love stronger than that of her sons for each other.  
  
When Dean came into the world again, she was right there, smiling down on him, more proud than the day she had born him, herself.  
 


	5. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**  
  
Winter, 2024  
  
Andrew Joseph Bronson II sat in his favorite spot, a small hidden cove on the miles and miles of beach, flinging stones and shells into the grayish ocean. He and his dad had gotten into another fight, as usual, and he'd come running here to sort things out, surfboard in hand. He never felt so at peace as when he surfed, but unfortunately, the water was too choppy today, not safe without at least one other pair of eyes.   
  
It was times like this when he wished he had a brother. Someone who liked the same things as he did, someone he could relate to, better than any best friend simply because they were blood. But, multiple kids weren't feasible on a basic military budget.   
  
And yet sometimes, he felt like another half of him was missing. His mom told him he was just searching for the right girl, and when he found her, that emptiness would fill right up. That didn't seem right though, beyond the fact that he wasn't interested in girls. To him it was as if he's gone all eighteen years of his life without someone. He'd always wondered if another sibling would have filled the void.  
  
He leaned back against his resting rock that so resembled a chair. He ran a hand through sun-bleached locks, fingering the bangs his mom told him were getting too long. He liked the cut; another thing his father hated.  
  
Andrew Bronson was a sergeant stationed at Fort Bragg his whole life. He wasn't anything special, but liked to think he was. Took out his inner general on his family, insisting they do what he wanted, when he wanted it. Drew had to admit he could be very loving—there was no doubt he worshiped Drew's mother—but he never let the emotion show long. He'd been a military man all his life and thought there was nothing greater than fighting body and soul for your country that, “gave everything for its citizens freedoms, fought the Germans, the Russians, and the Chinese to keep its economy strong, and kept up a shining moral shield which reflected on every other country”. Drew was hard pressed not to tell him that two of those wars had happened in the last century, and that he hadn't fought in those wars so what did he care? But anyone who interfered with the Sergeant's patriotism was in for a nasty shock. So Drew kept quiet. He also didn't disappoint his father by telling him about his affinity for men rather than women. In a country that had finally sanctioned gay marriage, his father was someone who should have been born in the 1950's rather than the 1970's.  
  
But that brought him right back to the latest argument with his old man. His father was determined Drew was going to become a military man like himself—what greater honor was there?—and since he hadn't gone to college, Drew didn't need to either.  
  
So when Drew had been too slow getting home from school that day to get the mail before his father did, he had received a two-hour long, ear-splitting lecture, on how Drew didn't appreciate what was given to him and how come his father's life had never been good enough for him, before he had left the house.  
  
His father had found the acceptance letter from Stanford.  
  
And all of the acceptance letters had come out then, letters from places like Yale, Gonzaga, University of Texas and so on.  
  
He wasn't sure what his father would do when he found out that of all the schools, Drew wanted to attend a relatively small school in the mid-west. He himself wasn't sure why he was attracted to it—not when his teachers were so proud he had been accepted to Ivy League, and when his friends encouraged USC so he could maybe make it onto the football team and party it up. Washburn University was the one that pulled him though, almost as if his name was on it. It had a great archaeological program, what Drew was hoping to major in. And a good religious studies minor. Drew's family wasn't particularly religious, but he'd always found the mythology and legends in various cultures and religions to be fascinating.  
  
Drew dreamt that once he graduated from college, he'd find his life partner and together they'd explore the world, finding great treasures, exploring ancient cultures and customs, and surfing beautiful beaches in their off time. He fancied himself like Indiana Jones, out there, hunting down ancient relics, maybe stopping the evil spirits when needed.  
  
He snickered to himself. He was such a sap.  
  
He knew he was going—nothing his father wanted could change that. Military life wasn't for him. He'd made a life of rebellion and he'd continue to do so.  
  
His graceful nose sniffed the air and Drew poked his head out of the cave. It was misting, the sun was setting. He should get back now. His father had probably gone back onto base to drink with his buddies and his mom was out with her friend Lucy tonight, doing...whatever women did. Watching some stupid chick-flick, most likely.  
  
He stood, stretching his 5'8 frame to it's fullest potential, enjoying the way muscles rippled beneath his pleasantly golden skin. He'd been told many times, by men and women alike, that he must be a god's son, like one of those Greek gods he studied so much. He smiled as he thought about two nights ago when the man at the local gay club who was toted as being a hard-to-get-only-tops man had fallen at his feet with only one dance and a few kisses, begging to be Drew's bottom.  
  
Men were so easy.  
  
He grabbed his surfboard and jogged the three miles home, humming a very old Metallica tune.  
 


	6. Interlude 3

**INTERLUDE 3**  
  
*Very good, Mary. He's feeling the pull—feeling you guiding him.*  
  
~I'm not guiding him on this, Michael. He's feeling _Sam_ pulling him. Sam knows he's out there, even if he doesn't realize it.~  
  
*You are not helping him with this at all?*  
  
~No. I know my sons. And while I help him with many things, I know Dean can find Sam on his own. Even if His plan had been to separate the two, He couldn't have. My sons are halves of one whole, and they'll find themselves inevitably drawn to each other once more.~  
  
*They keep surprising even me. Why are they not surprising you?*  
  
~They're my sons.~


	7. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**  
  
Sam Winchester was dreaming.  
  
_He was woken from another one of his nightmares, head pounding, to the sounds of Dean's voice.  
  
“Sam! Sammy! Wake up, bro!”  
  
He started, sitting straight up, staring into his brother's worried face.  
  
“Oh, God, Dean. It was awful. I just...why won't they stop?”  
  
Tears were falling from his eyes, pain more than emotion. The nightmares had leaked all the emotions from him. He was drained. Half the time, the only thing that kept him going was Dean's constant encouragement.  
  
“It's ok. You're fine. I'm here.” Dean pulled Sam's sobbing body in close to his and he burrowed into Dean's solid, warm chest. One arm went around his brother's neck, holding on for dear life, while the other hand clutched at Dean's shoulder.  
  
“I don't know if I can do it anymore.”  
  
“Do what?” Dean asked.  
  
“Go on. You have no idea how much it hurts.”  
  
“The nightmares?”  
  
“Yes, them. But also seeing these people. Not being able to help everyone. Sometimes, the dreams come too late and I know I'm seeing the past, and that person is dead.”  
  
Dean laid his cheek on Sam's hair. Sam huddled in closer; the only time he felt safe was in Dean's arms.  
  
“I know, I know it hurts. But you giving up isn't going to help anyone. Just imagine how many more people would die if you weren't here? If you didn't have some of these dreams in time? The world needs you.”  
  
Sam let go of his brother. So nice to know just how wanted he was; he was wanted to save random people he could never get to know. He lay back on his pillow and grabbed for the bottle of pills right on the bedstand between the two beds. He poured about six into his hand before Dean stopped him.  
  
“Don't do this. Stop being an idiot.”  
  
He stared up angrily at Dean. What right did he have? What did he care anyway?  
  
“I should just blow this whole world off. Dad doesn't want me, Mom and Jess are gone, we aren't getting any closer to the demon, and you couldn't give shit about me,” he said bitterly, taking two pills out of his hand and dumping them back in the bottle, then swallowing the other four, sans liquid.  
  
“Don't give a sh—you know what? You truly are an idiot, brother. You don't see—understand—how much I care.”  
  
“Only enough to keep me alive so I can hunt. Save a few more lives.”  
  
“First off, those lives are important,” Dean's voice was low and serious. “Our job is important.” He moved to lean over Sam's prone body, an arm on either side of his waist. Sam's heart sped up. “Second of all, did you not believe me when I said I didn't want you to leave? I need you, more than anyone ever could need someone.”  
  
“You want a normal life—a normal life of you and me and Dad. You have to know that'll never happen, even less than my version of normal.”  
  
“I do, I do. But I still don't want you to leave. You know I love you, bro.”  
  
Sam lay silent, staring unblinking into hazel eyes that were too clouded for him to understand what his brother was thinking.  
  
“I'm not sure...”  
  
“Sam, shut up.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“I said shut up.” His eyes were menacing now, shining in the moonlight that streamed through the motel blinds. “If you don't shut up, I swear to God, I'll kiss you,” his tone was threatening, and Sam didn't doubt he'd do it.   
  
Maybe that was why he tried again, “I don't think--”  
  
He was cut off as warm lips pressed him back into the pillow, a wet tongue sliding between his lips, passionate but still gentle. Sam's whole body tingled with desire. This had to be a dream still. His brother couldn't be kissing him. Not like Sam wanted him to.  
  
But it continued and Sam began to believe. Believe it was real, he was awake, that his brother really wanted_ him _. Headache suddenly gone, he tilted his chin up, using his own tongue to explore the heaven that was Dean's mouth. His hands crept up to thread through short light brown hairs and one slim naked leg slid up against a more muscular leg until he cradled Dean into him, kiss getting sloppier as he began panting._  
  
When Dean pulled back and sat up, Sam's leg resting at his hip, he licked his lips and said, “Told you I'd do it.”  
  
“I know,” Sam replied quiet, unsure.  
  
Dean's eyes turned hard for a moment. “Don't ever talk about leaving, in any sense of the word. I won't let you. You are mine. My brother, my best friend, my...” he rubbed his palms over his eyes, “just don't do it.”  
  
“No. No, I won't. I love you too, you know.”  
  
Eyes softened and a faint smile played about Dean's lips, swollen now from the kiss. Sam wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything so sexy as that.  
  
“Now, try to sleep. We should get an early start tomorrow.” Dean started to rise from the bed but Sam sat up and caught his wrist. He wasn't sure what exactly was happening, whether Dean had just used it as a means to placate Sam for a night, or if he wanted it as much as Sam did, but he had to know. Had to have Dean by his side.  
  
“Stay with me. Please,” he said, voice soft and pleading.  
  
Dean locked gazes with him and then sat back down. He tucked a piece of Sam's hair behind his ear, then crawled onto his other side.  
  
“Lie down. I'll stay and sleep with you.”  
  
Sam did, leaning into his brother's embrace, smelling the scent of mint and home, and Dean. Dean spooned around him, one arm running under his neck to rest on top of the other that was flung over Sam's chest. One leg rested on his hip and Sam felt like a caterpillar in its cocoon, but couldn't imagine a place he'd rather be. A few warm kisses pressed into his neck and Sam shivered.  
  
“Dean--”  
  
“Shh. Sleep now, talk later. Whatever it is, I feel the same.”  
  
Sam shut up then, finally, just turning his head back and kissing his brother's lips chastely, before lying back and fading out to the sound of Dean's sigh, “Oh, Sam...”  
  
And despite twin erections, they both slept better than either had in years.  
  
Sam woke up, tears streaming down his face, clutching a pillow to his chest. He swore he could still smell him, still taste his brother.  
  
Dean.  
 


	8. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**  
  
Drew stared up at the school that was to be his home for the next four or so years. He'd never felt more excited for anything in his life. The feeling of being here was just like surfing; a sense of freedom, danger, and passion.  
  
He pulled the last duffle bag from his basic black 2020 Impala, growling at it when it caught on his Fort Bragg t-shirt sleeve. He'd already checked into his room and unloaded most of his things. He wanted to get settled in before his roommate came.   
  
He headed back in the direction of his dorm, tossing a winning smile at the giggling and staring girls who probably hadn't seen a California boy before, before he smiled more enticingly at an attractive brunet guy he caught watching him.   
  
He reached the dorm and stared again at how nice it was. He'd heard from friends that dorms were cramped, cement, and ugly. The only way to live was in an apartment, they said. Washburn's rooms were airy though: hardwood floors, freshly painted, large windows. Not something he needed, but it would certainly make living here a lot more pleasant.  
  
Life was good.  
*****************************************************  
  
He'd been unpacking for about three hours when a sharp knock startled him and he hit his head on the closet bar.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry."  
  
Drew turned to see a very pretty, very uncomfortable looking man standing in the doorway.   
  
"No problem, dude. Are you Josh?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah I am. You must be Drew then. Glad to know I made it to the right place."  
  
Drew held out his hand, shaking Josh's firmly; like a man, like his dad taught him. Then he clapped him on the back.  
  
"It is a little confusing around here, isn't it? Well, you and I together, we'll find our way around. You got a lot of things? I'll help you with them."  
  
"Wow, thanks." Josh flickered dark eyelashes at Drew, unconsciously. "Yeah, I got a load of shit. My mom..."  
  
Drew laughed. "Yours too, huh? Mine sent me with a hot plate and a candle warmer. Like, we don't even use candle warmers at home. Why do I need one here?"  
  
Josh blushed, a band of light pink across his pale nose. "Mine sent me with my old baby blanket for Pete's sake." He turned fire-red then. "Not that I have...still sleep with it or anything. I mean...I uh-"  
  
“Hey, hey, it's ok. No judgment here, man.”  
  
Josh looked relieved.  
  
Drew smiled. “Now, let's go get your stuff.”  
****************************************************************  
  
Later that night, the two headed to dinner. For the first night of orientation, freshman got to eat with the faculty of their majors. While Drew had purposely avoided the other orientation activities—definitely not the cool thing to do—and Josh with him, he was looking forward to that night's dinner.   
  
He and Josh had on some of their best clothes—a dark blue dress shirt, khakis and leather blazer for Drew, a sport coat for Josh—in hopes of impressing the faculty that night. First impressions mattered the most, Drew's mother had taught him. You never get the chance to do it again. And considering Drew wanted nothing more than to intern or get a fellowship in the program, he knew he had to do whatever it took to stand out.  
  
They walked in, and Drew sized up his competition. Most were the stereotypical history-seeking geeks: small skinny white men. Drew counted two freshman girls and a Native American. He and Josh were the best looking in the bunch. Drew strolled in, confident.  
  
“Drew!” Josh whispered fiercely at him, tugging on his sleeve. “Look! It's _him_.”   
  
“Him?”  
  
Josh pointed at a very tall, handsome man already sitting at the faculty table and chatting amicably with an older man next to him. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, and he'd distractedly push them up in the middle of a gesture.  
  
“Who's the hottie?” he asked Josh, appreciatively eying the dark-haired man that Drew guessed was in his mid-thirties. His hair curled about his ears, and while his nose was a bit broad, his mouth was sexy and he had a strong jaw line.  
  
“That's Sam Winchester.”  
  
Drew looked aghast at Josh. “ _That's_ Dr. Winchester? Isn't he like forty something?”  
  
“Forty-two, in fact.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
So that was the famous Dr. Winchester. Drew had been gobbling up his theories and texts for about two years now. But the man seemed to be very private and didn't have a photo in the jacket of his books like most professors, and Drew had never bothered to look his photo up on the web. If he'd known the man looked like this, he would have done it much sooner.  
  
“We are so meeting him after dinner.”  
  
Josh turned to him with wide eyes. “Are you serious?”  
  
Drew led them to a front table, easily seen. “Of course I'm serious. The man's a genius.”  
  
“Yeah, no shit!” Josh was back to his excited whisper.  
  
The man Dr. Winchester had formerly been speaking with stood up, gesturing for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen—freshman. Please, have a seat and we'll get started. I'd like to introduce the top-notch faculty we have here at our grand university.”  
  
As the introductions went, faculty speaking of themselves, their accomplishments, and their families, Drew eagerly awaited Dr. Winchester's. When the man finally stood up and spoke, his voice sounded oddly familiar to Drew and he wondered if he'd ever listened to one of his lectures on tape at some point.  
  
“Sam Winchester. Just please, call me Sam. I uh, I graduated from Stanford University with a history major, then got my masters in archeology from Tulane University, finally gaining my doctorate in anthropology. Beyond that, there's not much to tell. Unlike the rest of my fellow faculty here, I don't have a family, so you'll have no problems finding me on campus, or getting a hold of me at home even, should you need to.” He looked almost sheepish as he sat down.  
  
Drew leaned over and whispered quietly in Josh's ear, “I think I'm in love.” Green eyes rolled at him in response. Drew just grinned.  
  
He fidgeted the entire dinner, learning little about their tablemates, Sue Anne Sheely and George Joinson, too distracted to do more than nod and interject when required.  
  
Dinner finally over, he made Josh sit and wait with him till nearly everyone had gone and Dr. Winchester had no one else waiting for him. They walked over as he was putting a small personal computer away in its case, a lock of brown hair flopping on his brow. Drew noted only a few strands of gray, and only because he was looking for signs of age. The man was too good to be true.  
  
“Dr. Winchester?” he spoke.  
  
“Sam, just Sam,” the professor said as he stood and turned towards them. It was then Drew noted his age. Not in his features, but in his eyes. The man's hazel eyes spoke volumes of pain, of sorrow, of love, of honesty and strength.   
  
They both reached out their hands and shook. The instant they touched a shock traveled through Drew and he was rooted to the spot, staring into the man's eyes, feeling as though he'd met him before, knew him somehow.  
  
Sam gasped. “Dean?” he asked in a quiet voice.  
  
Drew dropped his hand and shook his head, recovering quickly, at least for appearances sake. “No, close though. It's Drew actually. Short for Andrew.”  
  
Sam closed his eyes for a moment and the corner of his mouth tightened. Opening them again, he spoke, “I'm sorry. You just, you really remind me of someone. Of course your name's not Dean. I apologize. So Drew, is it? Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. And who's your friend?”  
  
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Drew blushed. “This is my roommate, Josh.” He shoved his friend forward.  
  
“Hi, uh, Sam. I have to say, I'm-I'm a big fan of your work,” Josh stumbled.  
  
Drew watched as Sam grinned, an open smile, all traces of hurt and sorrow gone.  
  
“Why, thank you. Really, I don't do much. Just what pays the bills, you know.”  
  
That had Josh smiling shyly.  
  
“So you're both freshman, right? Not transfers.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Sam turned to Drew, that look in his eyes again, as though he was searching Drew, hoping to find someone else besides him. “Don't please. 'Sir' was my dad. You never have to be formal with me.”  
  
“I'll try to remember that,” Drew said.  
  
Sam checked his watch. “Well, it's late, and I have a drive ahead of me still, so I'll let you kids go out and party your first night at college.”  
  
Drew grinned, “You could join us.”  
  
“Oh, no,” he waved a hand abstractly. “Never partied a lot even when I was in school. No, I gotta head home, early faculty meeting tomorrow. Thanks for the offer, though. I'll see you boys hopefully when school starts.”  
  
“Night, Sam,” the two chorused, as they watched the professor head out the door of the small dining room.  
  
Making sure no one was around, Drew turned to Josh who was white as a ghost but smiling like an idiot. “It's definitely love,” he sighed, not sure if he meant himself or Josh.  
 


	9. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**   
  
Sam drove down the interstate, still shaking. His hands visibly trembled on the steering wheel of his SUV and the random thought occurred to him that he was glad people had been able to make SUV's more fuel-efficient because he wouldn't know what to do without his Escalade. He let out a nervous snicker at himself.  
  
That had really thrown him, tonight. Sure, he'd noticed the kid before, sitting at his table—how could anyone not? Not with the longish, bleached blond hair, and sheer presence. But...  
  
When Sam had taken Andrew's hand, it was like for a minute, he could see into the kid's soul—and saw Dean. Everything had suddenly shouted _Dean!_ at him. And he knew the kid felt something too. Nothing else would account for his reaction, though he'd certainly recovered in a suave way, much quicker than Sam—another Dean-ish thing. There was nothing to explain that feeling, though. Dean had died almost nineteen years before and Sam didn't believe in reincarnation. Not of the non-demon type.  
  
So he was going to chalk it up to a weird sense of deja-vu and the strange resemblance to his brother. The kid even had the same shade of hazel eyes the elder did. _Had_ , he corrected himself.  
  
He flicked his turn signal and headed off the exit for Lawrence. He drummed out a mindless pattern on the steering wheel, mind having gone on auto-pilot the last few miles home.  
  
Finally, he pulled into the driveway, staring up at his house. The house he couldn't get away from. The house he'd never wanted to leave. Where fire had taken his mother and set him and his family on the path that would lead him to outlive both father and brother. He'd had some work done on it: a new white wash, gray shutters, recreated the garden his mother had left behind.  
  
Instead of walking inside right away, he headed to the single garage he'd had built. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside, smelling car wax, dust, and leather. He flipped on the light switch.  
  
The black paint gleamed slightly in the light and he couldn't help smiling at Dean's favorite possession.  
  
“How you doing, girl?” Sam said softly, having picked up Dean's habit of talking to the car since Dean, himself, wasn't there to do it anymore. He walked over, laying a hand flat on her hood, caressing it, unnoticed, as memories flooded through his head.  
  
_Dean holding a beer and laughing at some stupid joke Sam had told, swinging an arm around his shoulders as they sat on the hood._  
  
Sam watching the muscles in Dean's back as he steadfastly worked over its engine in the hot afternoon sun.  
  
One very heavy make out session in the middle of nowhere.  
  
Sam grinned and if he tried hard enough, he could still feel the Impala's purr under his back. He opened the car door, loving the squeaky sound his own vehicle never made. He slid into the driver's seat and shut the door again.  
  
Here, the smell was really intense. He'd taken good care of Dean's baby, both in memoriam and because he hadn't wanted the elder Winchester haunting his ass if the Impala rusted. He leaned his head back, turning it enough so his nose touched the vinyl, hoping for some trace of Dean. That never changed, though. The smell of his brother had faded after only three months.  
  
His smile fell as he sat there. About ten years after Dean's death, Sam started having dreams. Not the typical walk-into-school-naked type dreams, and not quite the same as the visions. He would dream of some small town, some person who needed saving, who usually was a pretty girl, some creature that needed hunting. The thing that made it different from his visions was the strong sense that Dean was with him in those moments. Sam fancied it was Dean leading him on the few hunting trips he made, either trying to keep Sam going, or else get Sam laid so he could live vicariously through his younger brother. He laughed, the sound swallowed by the Impala's sheer size. He wouldn't put it past Dean.  
  
And even though he had gotten laid a few times—even inviting one girl to live with him for awhile—it was never anything more than comfort or sex. He'd loved only two people in his life—Jess and Dean. That was the one thing Sam understood about his father: his dedication to their mother.   
  
He missed his father, actually. John had died only a few years before, well into his sixties he was still hunting, not ready to give up. He'd gone out fighting, just like Dean, just like he'd wanted, taking the bastard of a water dragon with him. He left Sam to scatter half of him to the wind, and half to rest beside Mary in their impromptu cemetery in the back yard of the house.  
  
Sam looked up from the dashboard as he felt a coolness seep into his skin. It wrapped around him, then touched his cheek, and vanished in an instant, but he swore he heard the words, “keep faith, Sammy,” as it left. He shuddered, blaming it on his clearly over-active imagination that night.  
  
He rubbed his hands on the steering wheel a few times, then stepped out. He glanced once more at the car.  
  
“I'll give you a bath tomorrow, baby. And don't forget, your tune-up's in just over a month.”  
  
He turned off the light, and made his way to the house, to his bed in Dean's old room.  
  
  
 


	10. Interlude 4

Mary watched as nineteen years of waiting became the start of a dance. When Sam and Drew shook hands, she saw the spark they felt. It was a kind of soul-touching; two souls destined to be one, meeting once more. She saw both of them react, Sam's eyes turning a deep brown with hope, the shiver that ran through Drew.

When Sam asked, “Dean?” it nearly broke her heart. Knowing that it was, in fact, Dean and not being able to shout out to her youngest son, to have to see that hope die in the next instant when he assumed he was delirious, it tore at her. 

As the two parted ways, she followed Sam, knowing that Drew, being Dean, would recover quickly and not think anything of it. He'd be ok. Sam, though. Mary knew he would brood as her son was wont to do.

She watched him in the car as he doubted himself, casually floating along. When they arrived, she took a moment to stare at her old home. She hadn't visited Sam since Drew was born, too intent on guiding him to be the man he had been and the better one he could be. She was surprised and flattered to see Sam had kept up her little garden. Just a few rose bushes, daffodils, pea plants, and a lilac bush—her favorite. Then again, her second son always had been sentimental.

She watched Sam head not inside, but to a new shed. She saw inside, John's Impala. _Dean's_ , she corrected herself. Sam had kept it up, too.

She took a moment to look at her son. He'd grown into a fine man. He'd been just on the verge when he'd visited the house to fight with the poltergeist. Now though, he had his hair cut shorter, though it still curled about his ears. The few strands of silver lent to his distinguished appearance. Being a professor suited him. He'd always been the scholarly one; she'd known, when unlike Dean, Sam kicked her stomach at Brahams, rather than the day-to-day music which had seemed to calm Dean when she was pregnant with her eldest. He'd stayed fit, still a tall beanpole, but he moved with more elegance than when he'd been twenty-two. She had a feeling that, although he was a teacher, he was now better at his 'night' job. Without Dean, he must have felt the need to be even better.

It was more than his appearance though. It was the way he carried himself, the aura of sorrow, but not of unhappiness. He'd taken on responsibility, and kept his promises, both those he'd made out loud and those he'd said to himself. Mary couldn't have been prouder.

She'd noticed him climb into the car and absently stroke at the steering wheel. She fought the urge to reach out and hold her baby boy, let him know he wasn't alone, that his whole family still loved him, that Dean was already back with him. It wasn't until she noticed a few tears leak silently down his cheeks, that she wrapped her ghostly arms about him and whispered, “Keep faith, Sammy,” touching his cheek right before she left him.

She hated seeing her boy so lost, but she knew that if he'd made it this long, he could wait just a little bit longer until Dean remembered himself.


	11. Chapter 5

Sam sat at the bar swirling his scotch. He wasn't really in the mood to drink, though he wanted for all the world to just be able to pass out right then and not wake until it was time for him to leave this mortal coil. He smiled humorlessly as he took another sip, feeling the ice cubes compete for entrance into his mouth.

He was always like this on this date each year. When he'd first started teaching, no one knew why he took that day off, until it happened for three years in a row and he had to explain himself to the president of the university. For a few years after that, his fellow colleagues had tried to get him to actually go out—like party, get trashed, fuck a girl or two. They'd finally given up and allowed Sam his day, allowed him his need to brood and grieve.

It was October second. Dean's Deathday, as he'd taken to calling it. He always took the day off and took the Impala in for a tune-up, his tribute and gift to his late brother. The new generation at the mechanic shop where Dad had once worked knew him well. They made sure to keep that day free of other appointments so they could spend the entire day on the Impala. Sam was a good customer, a friend.

After car repairs, he usually spent hours beside Dean's makeshift grave in the backyard. There were three small crosses in the backyard and on that day, Sam always grew impatient for his own little mark to lie beside the rest of his family, impatient to be forgotten by all. But the rest of the world didn't matter as long as he got back to his family. He felt guilty for still being alive.

And every night—since his coworkers had let him—he went to a bar downtown, which while populated with the college kids, was more quiet than most bars and everyone pretty much left him alone unless his glass needed refilling.

“Dr. Winchester?”

He glanced up. A boy with white blond hair was walking towards him, a handsome green-eyed boy trailing him.

“Drew.”

“You remember my name.” It was more a statement than a question, but all the same, Sam could hear the surprise in it.

“You really stuck out at that dinner.” How could he forget someone who reminded him so achingly much of Dean? How could he forget that spark that had passed through him, the shock knowing Drew had felt it too.

Drew flushed just the slightest, though in the golden bar light his face only seemed to grow more tan rather than pink. “So, Dr. Winches--”

“Sam, remember?” He smiled softly.

“Right. Sam.” Drew flashed a cheeky grin that only tore at his heart because it was so like Dean's. God, he couldn't handle this. Not today. “Are you celebrating something tonight? I haven't seen you here before. Doesn't seem like the place you'd normally go—not with all us pesky students.”

“Celebrating. Sure. Something like that.” He tried to hide the hurt and bitterness when he thought, yeah, he really was celebrating. Celebrating another year having gone by stable and monotonous, just how he liked. Nothing held any promise or excitement since Dean. “What about you?”

Drew's eyes scrutinized him and Sam was glad when his friend—Josh, now he remembered—broke in.

“Drew's nineteen, today. It's his birthday!” He yelled the last bit and a huge group of young college kids cheered from the corner, clinking glasses and laughing. Someone called for more beer.

Even that got Sam to grin. “Fantastic. Well, don't let me keep you, then. Go have fun with your friends.”

Drew brushed a lock of hair back, and really, he was gorgeous for someone so young. Full lips, high cheekbones, wide hands. 

No, he couldn't do that. He wasn't allowed to find anyone attractive. Not ever, especially not this day. Not to mention the kid had just turned nineteen.

Nineteen. It was the nineteenth anniversary of Dean's death. Yeah, absolutely not. There were way too many things that reminded him of Dean and he couldn't deal with that. He turned his head back to his drink, fully expecting Drew to go back to his friends.

Instead, he pushed a little at Josh who made a 'what the hell' kind of expression and then shrugged, going back to the group. He sat up on the stool next to Sam and gestured for a drink from the bartender.

Sam looked at him confused. “Your friends will miss you. You don't have to keep an old man like me company.”

Drew's face scrunched up in a look of disgust and rolled his eyes. “You're not old, Sam. Besides, give them all another beer or two and it'll go from being my birthday to just another night.”

“But still--”

“Don't worry about them. Or me.” He lay fingertips on Sam's wrist for a moment. “You look like you could use a friend. Or just an ear.”

When Sam said nothing, just stared at where those fingers had been, Drew continued, “Or, you don't have to say anything. I'm cool with drinking in silence. I like to do that myself, sometimes. When I'm not picking up guys and all.” He gave a lewd wink.

Sam couldn't help gaping. This kid was gay? Sam was sure the only straighter-seeming man he'd ever met was Dean. Josh, he could tell. That boy was strong and silent, but still reeked of unbridled male passion. Drew though...well, actually, he just radiated pure sex.

_Stop that!_ he told himself.

“Hope that doesn't bug you or anything,” Drew added.

“Not at all,” Sam recovered quickly.

“Didn't think it would.” Sam narrowed his eyes slightly. “Anyway. You want to talk or just drink?” 

He had just gotten his fresh beer and twisted the cap off, swallowing down the liquid, lips obscenely wrapped around the top and Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Sam groaned inwardly. He really couldn't afford to develop some kind of sexual attraction to a kid half his age.

Sam turned his head back down again, going back to swirling his drink, but he caught Drew shrug out of the corner of his eye. He took a deep breath.

“It's...I'm celebrating the death of someone I love, today.”

Drew glanced back over at him. “Yeah? Seems an odd thing to celebrate, but ok. I bet he's happy you're thinking about him.”

“Him?” Sam asked sharply.

“Please. Don't try to fool me. I can spot a man who likes men a mile away—if not more—and even then, I just get the vibe that you lost someone male.”

Sam wasn't so sure about that, but he'd learned some people had very good intuition. And he trusted Drew's for some reason. Not to mention he was right.

“Yeah, a guy.”

“See? Told ya.” He smirked, pink lips curling. “So, who was he?”

“My...” Sam wasn't sure. Did it seem like he'd lost a lover? Or family? No way was anyone ever finding out about the both parts of that question. He might feel really comfortable with this kid, but no one could understand what he and Dean had had. “My brother.”

“Family, huh? I can't imagine. I mean, for all the times as a kid I wished my dad were dead, I never really meant it. Not to mention, I've always wanted a brother.” He took another swig of beer. His eyes seemed to fall on Sam's hands which were twisting around themselves. Sam stilled them, holding onto his glass harder.

“A brother? No siblings then?”

“Nope. And you know, it's like something's always been missing. Like, there was supposed to be someone else and he's been missing my whole life. Or she, I guess.”

Sam looked up completely, staring at Drew's profile. “I know exactly what you mean. Ever since he died...it's like my other half's missing. I really...I really miss him.”

“Was his name Dean?”

“What?” Sam was startled.

“I just remember, when we met, you called me Dean.”

“Oh, God, you remember that?”

A sheepish grin. “Yeah.”

Sam thought. Might as well go for broke. “Yeah. Yeah, his name was Dean.”

Drew nodded.

This was shocking to him. He'd never spoke about Dean like this. Not to anyone but himself or Dean's cross. Dean in life would have rushed over it, never comfortable with emotions and all that girly crap, and he'd never found someone he could be open with before. Funny it would end up being some college student, who reminded him so much of his late brother. Then again, that could be why.

“But you,” comfortable or not, Sam had to push this conversation elsewhere or he'd start crying and he hadn't done that since the day Dean had actually died, “You'll find someone to make that emptiness go away. You'll find a great guy and together you'll do amazing things.”

“What about you?” Drew asked, eagle-eyed.

“Hmmm?” Sam asked, taking a sip of his now watered down liquor.

“What about you? Where's your man?”

“I think uh...I think we won't go into that, ok? I am still a professor.” Sam shifted, more uncomfortable 'cause how could he explain his love had died, too? It could lead to awkward questions.

“Yeah, ok.” He drained the last of his beer and Drew's tongue snuck out to lick at the last traces, wetting his lips. “Well, I think Josh's look could get pretty dangerous here, so I guess I'll head back.” He stood, and without seeming thought to what it might look like, he pushed Sam's bangs away from his face and behind his ear. That same shock that he'd felt before now echoed from head to toe.

Sam's head whipped around to Drew fast. His eyes were glowing a deep green that reflected the surrounding light.

“If you ever want someone to talk to, you can find me.”

“Happy birthday,” Sam said numbly and watched as a very handsome backside walked away. He shouldn't feel reassured by a just turned nineteen-year-old telling him he was there to talk to. That was wrong in so many ways. And betrayed Dean.

“Christ,” he groaned, closing his eyes and sinking his head into his hands.

The bartender smiled sympathetically.


	12. Chapter 6

Spring 2026

“...Back in black!” Drew shouted out over the music.

“Drew, please, my ears!” laughed Josh next to him.

That only made Drew sing all the louder.

There were driving in Drew's Impala, on their way to Sam Winchester's house. A select few of the younger archeology majors had been chosen to help Sam with some of his research and they were all meeting up in Lawrence, before heading out to a site he knew of.

“So. What do you think Sam's going to have us do?” Josh asked as the song ended and Drew turned the music back down. He was stretched out as far as his body and the car would let him, hands behind his head.

Drew glanced over at him, following his form. He was tempted to reach out a hand and stroke that tantalizing thigh, but he refrained. They'd decided way back that they wouldn't cross that line. While they both found each other attractive, they decided they'd rather have each other's company and live together as friends than have complicated relationship issues.

“I don't know. Long as we get there on time and don't miss them. You're not the best one with directions,” he teased.

“Oh, give me a break. Like you'd even stop for directions if it were you? You can be so full of yourself.” Josh was grinning though.

“Damn straight.”

However, ten minutes later, they were pulling onto a quaint street with a white, two-story house that had two other cars in front of it.

“Guess you got us here after all.”

Josh stuck his tongue out.

“Don't be promising things you don't mean,” Drew winked and got out of the car before Josh could punch him.

Laughing they walked up the cobbled path, staring at the garden.

“Seems kind of fruity, don't it?” Josh joked.

“Hey,” Drew said, feeling the need to defend Sam. “There's nothing wrong with a garden. Man's gotta get down in the dirt from time to time.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Hey, I never gave you crap for that baby blanket, did I?”

“Low blow,” muttered his roommate, that band of light pink covering his nose like it did whenever he was caught doing something or got embarrassed.

As they got closer, the scent of lilacs filled Drew's nose.

_A soft lullaby being sung as he kissed a little baby in a crib._

_“Mama? Can I spin the thingy?”_

_“Sure, honey,” came a lilting voice and he was lifted in to the air, where he promptly spun the mobile, batting at one of the baseballs and the baby below him cooed._

_“'Night, Sammy-baby,” he whispered and then he yawned as he was carried into his own room._

_“'Night, Mama,” he said, closing his eyes._

_A warm hand swept his hair back. “Good night, Dean.”_

“Hey, hey, you ok, Drew?”

Drew wrenched himself back to the present. That was weird. “Yeah, I'm just fine.”

“Are you sure? You kind of spaced out.”

“Yeah...”

_A big and friendly-looking man was laying in the front lawn. A blonde woman was holding a small, chubby baby in her arms—the same baby as before—cooing at him, playing with the small curls that were growing._

_He was playing in one of those for-kids cars. “Mama, when can Sam come driving with me?”_

_The man laughed. “Sammy's going to be too small for some time, son. You gotta remember, you're a lot bigger than him.”_

_He puffed out his chest. “Yeah, I am. I can't wait to show him all my toys. And when he gets bigger, I'm gonna make sure I share. I'll be the bestest big brother ever!”_

_The woman smiled, leaning down to talk to the baby though she looked at him. “Hear that, Sammy? You're going to love your big brother when you're older. He knows how to share.” She tickled the baby's stomach and his face scrunched up into a laugh as he rolled around in her arms._

Drew shook his head. Something funny was going on. It was like he was remembering something—someone else's life.

“Yeah, let's go in, ok?” he said to Josh who gave him a funny look but rang the door bell.

_“Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back. Now, Dean, go!_

_The roar and heat of a fire, his baby brother being pushed into his hands, and Daddy yelling at him. Gotta protect Sammy, gotta keep my brother safe, became a litany in his head as he rushed out the front door, unable to cry though he knew Mama was still in there. All that mattered was the crying baby in his own arms._

_“It's ok, Sam.”_

_A giant blast of heat and fire._

“Oh, God,” Drew muttered, just as Sam opened the door.

“Hey, guys!” Sam was clearly excited. “Come on in!”

They both walked in and Drew gazed around the entry, but nothing seemed to strike him as odd.

“Sue Anne and Lee are here already. I have them stocking up on sandwiches 'cause it's going to be a long day.”

“Great!” Josh said and dashed into the kitchen.

Drew stood, spinning about slowly. That staircase...it seemed familiar.

“You ok, Drew?” Sam asked, seeming genuinely worried.

“Yeah, I think. I just feel like I've been in this house before.”

“Hmmm. Well, I can assure you haven't. I've lived here almost as long as you've been alive.”

“I feel like I've been here in a dream, maybe. Or some past life.” He laughed at himself. “That seems silly though, doesn't it?”

He thought he heard a muttered, “Not as silly as you think,” but he couldn't be sure because the next moment Sam was ushering him into the kitchen, warm, large palm resting on his shoulder.

The three other kids were seriously stuffing their faces. But Drew didn't blame them considering all the amazing food on the counter. He turned to look at Sam, one eyebrow raised.

Sam held up his hands. “I don't have many visitors. I like to go all out.”

“Do you cook too? 'Cause if you do...” Drew trailed off, but flashed a glance in Sam's direction knowing he'd get it but the other three wouldn't. He watched as Sam shuffled his feet and looked down like an overgrown college student himself. Drew smiled.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam just nodded and excused himself.

Drew stacked his sandwich high; loading turkey, ham, tomato, onion, lettuce, and more until he wasn't sure he could fit it in his mouth. Just practice, he thought wickedly, and bit in.

He was halfway through his meal when Sam came back in, backpack thrown over his shoulder, shovel in hand.

_“Hey, bro! Are we going to burn this bitch's bones or what?”_

_Sam was leaning on a shovel, glaring at him. “Geez, Dean. Just because the lady went a little crazy after death doesn't mean you have to call her names.”_

_“Touchy, touchy, aren't we? Come on, dude. I wanna get back and take a shower. Get a drink maybe.”_

_When they'd unearthed the bones, Dean flicked a lighter and watched as it burned a moment, something about the smell of salt and gas and fire. It made him feel oddly at peace. He looked up and caught Sam's eyes. They reflected the little flame._

This was not good. That was a younger Sam. How could he be having memories of Sam as a kid? He'd only just met him over a year ago. Hell, ever since his nineteenth birthday, they'd hardly seen more of each other besides a quick 'hi' as they passed in the halls or if Drew was particularly chatty and went to Sam's office. Which had been like, twice.

Ok, so he'd seen the photo with a younger Sam and a very handsome man with his arm around him, whom he'd assumed was Sam's brother. But that didn't explain the kid visions and grown men torching bones. What was up with that?

He spent the entire rest of the day trying to figure out his brain and what these seeming memories were. He barely noticed what he was doing or the fact that both Josh and Sam were looking at him throughout the day, worry reflected in both their eyes. He missed their hushed conversation even.

The whole way back, he let Josh drive and stayed quiet. Josh glanced over at him once. 

“Hey, you feeling ok?”

“Yeah,” Drew sighed. “I just think..I'm feeling a little sick.”

“Well, maybe Sam will let you stay there for the night.”

“Why would he do that?”

“If you're not feeling well, I mean, maybe you don't want the hour car trip back?”

Drew rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Josh. I'm not dying here or something. I think I can make the drive back to the dorm.”

“Ok...”

And that was the end of that conversation. However, when everyone was packing up, Sam pulled him aside.

“Hey, Drew. I was wondering...you look kind of out of it. You want to stay and have dinner? I think I remember you once saying I could talk to you about anything. It works the other way, you know.”

“Dinner, huh?” Drew liked the idea. He was feeling better, not so confused, and almost ready to pass those thoughts as too much caffeine. Or something. But dinner with Sam? Maybe he could make a move. “Sure. Let me tell Josh, 'k?”

Sam nodded.

Drew walked back to the entry way where Josh was waiting. He ran his hand over the banister. He could swear he'd been in the house before. It was like he knew where everything was.

“Hey. I'm going to stay, ok?”

Josh smiled knowingly at him. “What'd I tell you?”

He punched his friend in the arm. “Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Look, you think you can a ride back from Sue Anne? I'd prefer to have my car, you know, in case something gets...awkward.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow. Don't do something I wouldn't do.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

As soon as Josh was gone, even honking Sue Anne's horn as they left, Drew turned around, only to find Sam almost right behind him.

“Sam.”

“So, Drew. What would you like for dinner? Like I said, I don't get a lot of visitors, so I do like to cook when I have someone over.”

“Anything, really. I'm not all that picky. As long as there's no caviar and no green beans. Hate the first, allergic to the second.”

Sam chuckled. “I assure you I have none of the first, and I'm not too fond of the second myself. Italian ok?”

“Sounds good. Where's your bathroom?”

“Upstairs, second right.”

“Thanks.” Drew started up the stairs, one hand still trailing the banister. “And Sam?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks. I mean, you didn't have to.”

“I know,” Sam said, looking him right in the eye before he left to the kitchen.

Drew climbed up to the second floor. He found the bathroom easy enough. Exiting again, he couldn't help his curiosity. For all that Sam was open, he was still a bit of a mystery. Mourning for his brother twenty years later, no lover, and he seemed totally absorbed in his work. Which was fine, but what fun could it be without someone to share it with? His father would call it sentimental, but Drew knew he wouldn't make it through the day without Drew's mother to come home to. Sam seemed to have no one. He hadn't seen a photo frame yet. It was almost like Sam was keeping everything semi-permanent. No love, no close friends, no other family, a straight-laced home kept up nice but without personal touches. Almost like he was waiting for the day when he moved on, and when he did, he wasn't expecting to bring much with him.

There seemed to be three rooms on the floor. The first, farthest from the stairs, was a small room, obviously meant for a child. However, it was decorated like an office. Laptop, desk, light, book shelves. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings about various archaeological digs, mythological creatures, religious symbols. He walked in further, towards the books. _Christian Era Magic_ , _Demonology_ , _Aztecs and Their Gods_. The variety was endless, some old and cracked, others brand new. He noticed one small section that seemed to be dedicated to classics. He spotted F. Scott Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Homer, Aristotle, to name a few.

He walked out of that room. So Sam liked to read—that much was obvious. And while in another house, especially one like Sam's, those books might seem out of place, they fit well with his job. One of the things Drew was really beginning to like about Sam was he was a total geek—but didn't really come off like one. No matter his job, even his seeming self-inflicted hermitage didn't hide the feeling that Sam was more than what could be seen. He was almost the Clark Kent type. Shy and somewhat dorky from day to day, but you got the idea that on any given night, he could turn into Superman.

The second room he walked into was the master bedroom. He assumed this would be where Sam slept, but instead, it seemed to be a guest room, even more bare than the rest of the house, though still polite and comfortable. Where did Sam sleep then?

He walked into the third room and it was then that he was hit by a barrage of memories. They flooded his brain, spinning faster than before, and he wasn't able to catch a single one. He caught nothing except that he had been in the house before. This was his house. Or rather...he'd lived here once before.

He clutched at the bed decorated with a black and gray comforter. He slowly sat and remembered.

His bed had been in the corner. His play desk along that wall there, right where Sam's dresser was. His toy chest had been under the window. Mary had always believed her son needed sun as he played.

He leaned his head down on the pillows and before he could touch them, he already knew what they smelled like; a faint bit of cinnamon from Sam's aftershave, the herbal tinge of his shampoo and all the other scents that made Sam, Sam.

He jolted up and ran to the bathroom again, splashing his face with cold water. Things were really coming to him now. He looked in the mirror and saw as though it were actually happening, the face that he'd seen in the picture with Sam, line up with his own and become one. Only, he didn't know the face from the picture. He knew it because it was his. He was Dean.

“Sammy,” he whispered, staring into hazel eyes that were so close to his own—were his own. 

A knock sounded on the door. “You ok, Drew?” came Sam's muffled voice and Drew/Dean let himself slide down the sink and sit on the floor.

“I'll be out in a sec,” he called. He listened as footsteps retreated.

That wasn't his voice. The hands with their blunt fingertips...they weren't his. Though they were similar. In fact...

As he took inventory of his body, he realized Drew was a lot of things Dean. The hands, the eyes, the frame of his body. The hair was too long—that was so getting cut tomorrow—and it was much more blond. The clothes...he looked down and noticed a light olive-colored sweater and khaki's, which he'd changed into after the dig. Yeah, they definitely had to go. You couldn't hunt in khaki's.

Hunt. Oh, shit. That's what he did. How could he have forgotten? Forgotten everything about hunting? He scoured his brain for Latin, but came up with nothing. Not that that had ever been his thing—Sam was the Latin expert—but none of it?

And, God. Sam. Sammy. He moaned, putting his head in his hands. How would Sam ever believe this? He wasn't sure he did even, and yeah, they'd seen a lot of shit, but reincarnation? That wasn't supposed to happen outside of Hinduism. Or at all.

He shifted and stood up. He had to figure out how to tell Sam. He just...he couldn't believe he was with Sam. Like, he'd been led here. Back to Sam. 'Cause if he'd remembered without being by Sam? He just might have gone crazy. Not knowing where Sam was, he couldn't handle that. But instead...

He opened the door and headed down, now more confident through the house, even finding the small gouge right by the entry way he'd made when he was three with a small kids' shovel. Dad had once told him he'd been trying to make a dog door, just so Mommy and Daddy would buy him one.

Smiling, he headed into the kitchen. This time, he actually looked around, looking through Dean's eyes. The counters were clean, everything was really clean, actually. Just like Sam. The setting sun cast shadows on the backyard and its trimmed green grass. The 'fridge was new. His attention was drawn to the stove and suddenly the smells hit him like a Mack truck.

The air was tinged with spices and the smell of Alfredo sauce. He could practically taste the starch as pasta cooked in a medium-sized pan. He saw chicken laid out on a cutting board and frozen peas thawing in a bowl.

“Sam, where'd you learn to cook, man?” He said, then realizing how Deanish that sound, he tried to cover—none too well. “I mean, uh...when...yeah.”

Sam looked at him weird for a moment, then turned back to his pasta, putting in a bit of salt and stirring it.

“My brother and I...we. Well, we always used to travel, our job took us everywhere. So we always ate in diners and such, ever since we were kids, even. I never had to know how to cook before he died. That was always Dean's thing.” He looked up with a wide grin, though a sad look in his eyes. “Not that he was that good. He...he kind of raised me and really, his best meal was Lucky Charms.”

_Hey_ , he couldn't help thinking, but passed it aside.

“So when he died, I decided I had to learn to cook. Especially when I went back to school. School's expensive, as you know, and I couldn't afford to always eat out. So I took some community cooking classes and now here I am. I mean, I can't cook you up some elaborate Japanese dish or something, but pasta and burgers...I do those pretty well.” He smiled once more. “I just know, when I see Dean again, he's going to kick my ass and call me a woman.”

_Damn straight. Community cooking classes..._

“Well, it smells great.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, smiling, revealing his dimple. How had he gone so long without seeing that dimple? Without remembering how young it made Sam look? “Anyway, you want to set the table? I mean, nothing fancy.”

“Sure,” he said, and he headed for the drawer to the left of the sink, grabbing two of everything.

“Say,” Sam peered at him, “how'd you know where they were?”

“Oh, umm...lucky guess. It's where my mom kept them.” He still remembered that from when he was four. Then again...his mom had kept them in the second drawer from the right of the oven. God, this was confusing. Remembering two lives was rather taxing—and he'd never been one for over thinking...as either Drew or Dean. He had to decide which one he was. Thinking of himself as DrewandDean just wasn't going to cut it.

Deciding he'd stick with being Drew until he found the right time to tell Sam, they chatted amicably about school stuff—about what his next few classes should be, the best professors, and so on. Not that he had any doubt in his mind Sam was the best in everything he did. He combed through Drew's memories, trying to figure out what Sam had done the whole time he'd been gone.

When everything was ready, they sat down. Drew/Dean dug deeper into Sam's background and found himself impressed both as Drew and as Dean. As Drew he was amazed at all Sam knew. As Dean he was proud of his baby brother, everything he'd done, made of himself. 

At one point, he began to phase out Sam's words and just listen to him. His voice had grown with him and while he was speaking soft, the sound projected everywhere. It was sort of like stereo surround sound. The words floated all around, never monotone. 

He finally looked at Sam. Looked at him as Dean. His brown hair had stayed the same, though he'd cut it a little shorter and it was laced with a few gray streaks. But that did nothing to diminish from his appearance. He looked no older than his early thirties though he was now almost forty-three. He'd kept in shape too. Dean wondered if he still hunted. Everything in his life seemed to be set up for it. Sure, he hadn't seen any guns, but there was the basement.

“What?” 

Sam's question startled him. He realized he'd been staring.

“Nothing. It's just...You're really good looking, you know that? You've grown up.”

Shit.

“Grown up?” Sam was looking at him weird again. Well, no better time than the present. Besides, he was done eating. He was always more confident on a full stomach.

“Sam...What would you do if I told you I was Dean?”

Sam laughed. “I'd say you'd had too much to drink, but we haven't had anything.”

“What if I was serious?”

Sam frowned. His nostrils flared, like they always had when he was upset. “I'd ask you to stop. Let's...let's forget about my brother. We were having fun.”

“Yeah, we were, Sammy, I just--”

“What did you call me?”

Oh, those eyes were blazing now. Dean knew he wouldn't like this. For all Sam's visions, believing Dean was actually here in another body was something that would take a lot of convincing.

“Sammy. Something I've called you from day one. Sam—it's me. I'm Dean. Look, it's crazy. But how can you not believe with everything we've seen? I am your brother. Like, reincarnated.”

“Drew, please.”

“I'm not kidding!” Dean stood up and went to his brother. Sam was still taller than him. Dammit. Why couldn't they have given him some sort of edge over Sam? “It's insane and I've only just remembered. But I do remember. I saw this house and...I saw you as a baby. I kissed you good night.”

“Look, I don't know what you're trying to pull--”

“Sam!” His voice wasn't quite the same, but it still made Sam sit up straighter like they always had when Dad used that tone. The 'listen up and obey me' voice. “I carried you out of that fire when you were six months old. Our dad was John Winchester. You went to Stanford and I came to get you when Dad went missing. We stopped a Woman in White and when we got back, Jess was on your ceiling. We stayed together then until I died. Fighting that demon. That son of a bitch went down, even if he got me too.”

“I don't know how you could know those things, but--”

“Exactly! This isn't something Drew would know. You have to believe me. I may be in another body, I may not sound like him, but I am your Dean, just Drew, too. Sorta.” He paused to think. “Though, really, I feel more like Dean, now.”

He looked at Sam who was staring agape at him. His jaw hung open, his eyes were wide, burning with a mix of emotions that flickered through too fast for him to read. His expression was too tempting.

“Do you remember this?”

He leaned down and captured his brother's lips with his own. He was able to peruse his mouth right away, tongue flickering over every spot, rememorizing the taste and feel of Sam. God. Twenty years without this.

The air seemed to crackle around them, built up tension, sex, and maybe, just maybe, it was the feeling of two souls being reunited again.

Sam refused to do anything at first, but when Dean wrapped his tongue around Sam's and brought it into his mouth sucking at it, and one hand fisted in his hair, Sam began kissing back.

It lasted forever; it lasted no where near long enough. Sam's big-ass hands came up to his chest and for a moment, Dean thought he was actually going to give in this easily, trust his body rather than his mind. But then the bigger man pushed him away with just enough force that he went stumbling back.

“Get out.” That voice was lethal. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard Sam speak like that, all those years of being brothers. 

So it wouldn't be that easy.

“Sammy, I--”

“Do not. Ever. Call me that again. You have no idea what you've done. I mean it. Get. Out.” The air was now tense with anger and defeat. Dean looked and beneath all that anger, he could see the hurt in those eyes turned deep brown.

That hurt him more than anything. That he'd hurt Sammy.

He nodded. “Alright. I'll get out. But I'll be back. I am Dean and I will convince you.” He took one more look at Sam—his brother really was gorgeous, age did nothing to dampen that—and then he turned and walked out, making sure his feet kept going even as he heard the choked gasp behind him.

There was one person, he knew could help him if anyone could. She'd always been able to smack sense into both of them.

He got into his car, which, he noted, was an Impala. He grinned. Seemed he couldn't stay away. Even if she wasn't as pretty as his baby. He wondered what had happened to her.

Now if only Missouri was still alive.


	13. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes: Special thank you to Jellicle Freak who helped beta Missouri and to Siberian Skys who did extra work on this chapter for me.  


* * *

Dean drove across town and to the familiar green house. Sure enough, the sign proclaiming “Missouri Mosley's Palm Reading” still hung above the porch door. He stepped out of his car in the fading light and knocked, hoping she wouldn't already be asleep.

He heard some shuffling and then a rumpled-looking, white-haired Missouri greeted him in a big fluffy robe.

“Hi, Missouri. Look, I know you don't know me but...”

“Dean Winchester. I was wondering when you'd be around.”

He stammered. “You...you know me?”

“Boy, it don't matter what you look like on the outside,” she said with a nod for him to come in, shutting the door behind him. 

She ushered him into the living room still framed with the wood-beaded curtain. Almost everything was the same as he remembered from the last time they'd seen each other, a month before his death.

He smiled, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. 

She batted him away, but he could see the small grin she was trying to cover. “Let me get a good look at you.”

He stood in the middle of the room as she circled him, looking him over from head to toe.

“I dare say you're even more handsome this time around.” She gave a pointed look at his hair, though, and he swept it back from his forehead. It was getting cut first thing tomorrow. “Sit, sit,” she gestured.

He sat and almost put his feet up, but paused at her look.

“And I see you haven't changed one bit either, Dean. Or...?”

He shifted. “I guess I'm Drew. Well, Andrew Bronson II, actually.”

She walked into her kitchen and came back out with a pot of tea. “The second, you say? Well, high class as it is, it suits you. Tell me, when did you remember?”

“Only tonight.”

“Tonight?” She laid a hand on his as she gave him a cup. “Ah, I see, yes.”

“What?”

“You see, I've been wondering when you'd remember. I knew right away when you died—Sam and your daddy came here for awhile after—and I knew again the minute you were born. It was then I knew you'd end up coming back, only I didn't know when or where you were. But, tell me, was it the house?”

“It seems to have been that, yeah. I mean, I've know Sam for over a year now but...well, as Drew, anyway.”

“Of course. You a student? One of Sam's?”

“I'm in his department, yeah. It's like...like I was drawn to him or something.”

“You were. We keep meeting the souls we're attached to, for better or worse, life after life. Your souls are connected—more strongly than most even. This happens with everyone. But you, you must have been real determined to get back.”

“I had to. I had to be with Sam. It's just...this wasn't how I expected it, you know?”

“God never does what we expect, honey. But sometimes, it turns out for the better. He knows what He's doing.”

“Only problem is, Sam doesn't believe me.”

“Boy, you gotta give him time! The man's set in his ways and he's been grieving for you for a long time.”

“It just,” he sighed, “it just seems with everything we've seen he would believe.”

Missouri took a sip of tea, then poured a bit more honey into it, clinking her spoon on the saucer. “Sometimes, the miracles are the hardest things to believe in.” She looked pointedly at him.

The reaper. He remembered telling Layla that Sam had enough faith for the both of them. “Guess it's my turn to have faith now, huh?” 

She nodded. “Sam's going to need proof.”

He slid forward on the couch, gesturing in frustration. “I already told him I knew about Jess, the fire, how I died. No one else could know that. What else can I say?”

“Sam's a stubborn boy. It'll take more than words to convince him. He's gotta see you're Dean. You gotta show him.”

“How can I do that when I look like this?” He spread his hands at himself. “It's not like I can suddenly turn into Dean. Can I?” He looked up sharply.

Missouri shook her head sadly and he sank back into the couch. “No, it doesn't work like that. No matter what, you're still Drew.”

“God, I don't know what to do.” He felt his eyes beginning to brim. Dammit, he didn't want to cry.

“Boy, you stop that right now.” Putting her cup down abruptly, she stood, looming over him. “Sulking is not going to get Sam back. You just keep doing what you're doing. He'll come around”

“What I'm doing?” Dean asked.

Missouri shook her head. “Being Dean.” 

She motioned for him to stand up, and once he did, she smacked him on the back of his head.

“Hey...”

“Don't make me get my spoon, boy. Use that brain God gave you. Now get on with you. I'm an old woman and I need my beauty rest. You get home and think of something. Don't worry, he'll come around, he's just afraid of feeling again.”

“You can't just tell him? Talk to him? He'd believe you.”

“If I'd told you your daddy came back and pointed at some random ten-year-old, would you believe me?”

He thought, then mumbled, “No, probably not.”

“Alright then. Shoo.”

Dean started down the steps, staring up at the starlight, wondering what his next move should be.

Missouri called after him, wrapping her robe tighter. “Dean, he already knows. You've just gotta get him to admit it to himself.”

Dean nodded. Then smiled. “Thanks, Missouri!” He kissed her cheek once more and ran back to his car, sure of his plan.


End file.
